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310 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1957
It was one of the loveliest gardens of its kind that he had ever seen, a rose garden where the rich sensual flowers bloomed in profusion in their beds of Kentish clay, and a little stone faun stood on a pedestal in the centre of pinks and reds and whites and yellows, piping a soundless tune into the scented air. And there, cutting a crimson rose, with her hands full of flowers, Henry saw Anne Boleyn.
He wanted something new to hunt. The pursuit, never the kill, she thought hysterically, her lips moving. He didn't really care for the kill. That was the secret. That was why he tired, and the legend of his great virility grew as he discarded one woman after the other. And it was a lie; he wasn't virile in the sense the world accepted. He was a bad lover; he was unskilled and nervous and he didn't really like it.